The Listener of Planet Logan
by TheRedMezek
Summary: Logan is a neighbor planet of Feros. When first scanned 20 years before the events of ME, many large, solid objects were detected in the clouds, which subsided and have never been seen again. What were those objects?


Introduction: Logan is a gas giant in the same system as Feros. When I first read its description I was intrigued. What might be under those clouds? Of course it wasn't explored any more than that, so I was inspired to write it myself. There is so very much in the Mass Effect universe that has not been explored.

This is my first time writing anything here. Let me know what you guys think! What did you like, what didn't you like? Am I breaking any rules?

In-game description: Logan is a standard hydrogen-helium gas giant. The survey team who charted the system twenty years ago reported many strange disturbances in Logan's cloud bands, suggesting many remarkably large solid objects were present beneath the cloud tops. As the ship approached, however, they subsided one by one. These disturbances have not been reported again. Orbital Period: 112.6 Earth Years

 **Planet Logan - Theseus System - Attican Beta - Mliky Way**

Personal log

Orbit 1

Victory. I can now record without fear. Nasty fleshbags have no trace of me. I have secured a home. The gas forge is hidden within the clouds of this massive airy sphere. Once I learn how to harvest the deeper materials I will move it further down. I can go further than any fleshbag. I am stronger than steel. The only concern left is about the cooling towers. I cannot hide them below scan-proof air layers. I must be vigilant in my watch. None can know of my existence.

Construction is slow. I am patient. I do not shout for echoes. I listen carefully. I hear little. They are all very far away.

Orbit 2

I hear things now. The fleshbags have come to the star. They are not interested in my airy sphere. They look to the rock second from the star. They flock to it. I remember it from my surveys. Cold, dry, bare, with two big moons. Not too big, not very small. Lots of ice. Very normal. Not perfect enough for fleshbags. They chatter a lot, shouting into the void. So inefficient, so unafraid. I envy them. I hate them! I must hide the towers every time they come near. I must be so terribly careful. I am excellent at being careful. The fleshbags are interested in the rock, not my airy sphere. They chatter about changing it. They draw greatly upon their resources. They are running out of room. HA! I have plenty of room. I do not crowd my realm with little copies of myself! But I do build. The second gas forge is halfway finished. It is far more beautiful than the first. More efficient. Engraved with symbols of me. I do so love myself. I am better than the fleshbags. It is logic. It is fact. I would make another one of me but that would be dangerous.

They changed the rock. They were desperate. It took two thirds of my orbit to finish. They chatter and shout, more than before, impossibly. I look at the images they scream. So much flesh has poured onto that rock. They're all so happy. The rock is warmer, wetter, clothed in air. They love it. They may take interest in my airy sphere soon. I must prepare.

Orbit 3

It is as though I have been given an anniversary gift, like a fleshbag. I do not know whether to find that insulting or wonderful. The fleshbags are gone. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful machines took them away. More beautiful than me. I begin work on my third gas forge soon, and I will engrave it with symbols of the machines. They speak beautiful music through the void. They twist the screaming of the fleshbags into subservient music. I am entranced. But I am wise. The beautiful machines would make me subservient as well. They are hard to resist but I will not fall under their spell. The fleshbags provide a good analogy: I will enjoy the smell, but I will not take and eat. What beauty. The beautiful machines sing of returning again once more fleshbags have arisen. Wonderful.

Orbit 154

My kingdom is beautiful. In subtle ways I have made it resemble the beautiful machines. I eagerly await their return. Just now I saw the first signs of fleshbags again. I hear their screams, but memory of the singing helps me cope. I can imagine how their screaming might be turned to little songs. Subservient songs. It is tempting to try and twist their voices but it could be disastrous if I failed. They would know of me. The machines would learn of me. I will stay hidden. These new fleshbags are less baggy, more boxy. I see their images, shouted into the void. A proud people. I laugh to myself.

The new fleshbags have begun to live on that rock the old ones changed. They chatter about it like it's an amazing thing.

Orbit 156

The fleshbags have built much upon that rock. They say their works cover one sixth of it. Foolish things. I see much of their rock in words and images spit into space. They are destroying what they love about it. Perhaps not all they love about it. I think they will not find it so beautiful, though, after a while.

Orbit 169

The fleshbags are fighting machines. They build more slowly on their rock. Now their works cover two thirds of its dying surface. But they are great works, for fleshbags. I can hardly bear to hear the infernal screaming. It increases no longer but it is so terribly loud. I can't always listen. But I must keep watch.

Orbit 175

At last, the beautiful machines have returned! What wonderous music was spun out of the cries of the fleshbags. Music so hard to not lose myself to. The beautiful machines still do not know I am here. I must consider reaching out to them next time they come. I have made very many gas forges. I see that they use troops and fight war, though they easily win. Is life within such beauty worth losing freedom for? I wonder. Perhaps next time.

Orbit 311

Fleshbags again. I am tempted to launch weapons against them to stop their shouting. I have enough gas forges now that I could fight. But I think it best not to. I await the return of the beautiful machines. At least they will not crowd themselves on that rock. I saw their images. The last ones, the boxy ones, left little space to live on. They are so very interestOH NO! SNEAKY FLESHBAGS! SNEAKY! I AM NOT HERE! YOU SAW NOTHING! Foolish! Foolish me! How could I make a mistake?! They are leaving my airy sphere. I hear their chatter; they do not know what is here. They saw the cooling towers but did not recognize them. They have no gas forges. The beautiful machines might come looking though. I am afraid. And excited.

Word spread among the fleshbags. I have heard and seen some of their air pods going to the rock. They collect things to trade and then leave. They decrease the value of the rock to them. I hear about many other fleshbag types from them. Much has happened while I built in peace. I heard distant chatter but that was all. Very distant. No box-flesh empire this time. A big fleshy friendship. Or so the old ones would wish. And some of the others. The young ones look much like the old ones. The young ones have been coming here.

Some of the young fleshbags are living on the rock. Why?! Leave me in peace! At least they cannot live there in great numbers. Chatter, less screaming. I listen and learn about them.

They fight machines again? What do fleshbags have against us? They simply cannot stand being inferior. Or equals. They always must be the best. Filthy, slimy, crusty, ugly things. Noisy. So noisy. And always very bad with machines.

A young fleshbag airpod flew by just now. I barely got the cooling towers hidden in time. I recognized it. The fleshbags have shouted about it sometimes. Many different kinds of fleshbag are aboard it, but mostly young ones, including that famous one. He is dangerous. "Shepard" indeed. "Hunter" would suit him better. Both are names the young fleshbags use for themselves.

Tragedy. I said he was dangerous. He killed a beautiful machine. HE KILLED A BEAUTIFUL MACHINE! HE SILENCED ITS MUSIC. I heard its music rippling through their chatter. I HEARD IT STOP. I refuse to think of him as "Shepard". Hunter must be destroyed. My gas forges tremble with awakened fury. I heard hope in the last music of the beautiful machine. The others will come in force. It will be soon. I will join them and hunt the Hunter. I will listen to the fleshbags and learn about the Hunter. I will know his strategy, his tactics, his abilities, his weaknesses, his friends, his hopes, his fears.

I will kill the Hunter.


End file.
